


Unexpected

by TheGirlWithTheRedBalloon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlWithTheRedBalloon/pseuds/TheGirlWithTheRedBalloon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson lives an extremely dull life with an extremely traumatic past.  When a strange woman barges into his life offering excitement and change, how could he possibly say no?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> Just an idea that I started. I don't know how far I'll get or if I'll continue even. Maybe if enough people say they like it... maybe.
> 
> Content is subject to change.

John was lonely. He pretended that he wasn’t and he tried not to care but at the end of the day, when he went back to his empty flat, he couldn’t deny it. He’d make himself dinner (pre-packaged microwave spaghetti, five minutes on high), drink a beer, and fall asleep on the old couch while the light from the muted T.V. cast shadows across his face. He’d wake up with a dull ache in his chest and the morning news on the screen.

It hadn’t always been like this, this dreariness and sadness. There was a time when he had been happy, a time when his job was something to look forward to. There was a time when he’d woken to the warmth of his bed and another person curled up beside him. He used to have a good life. It had been one that many people had envied when he told them about it. But then it had been torn from him, had suddenly been ripped from his grasp.

It was 4 years ago, the accident, the one that had caused everything to crumble. John and his family had gone to an art museum for a family outing because it was the first day John was on leave from the army. His daughter, Hailey, who was eight and already an art fanatic, had been so excited to see the Van Gogh exhibit. She had tugged on his arm impatiently while they bought their tickets. Mary, his wife, bounced their 5-year-old son, Leo, in her arms and smiled fondly at him as he let himself be dragged down the hallways by Hailey. He used to recall the memory of them with a grin and happiness, but now it only conjured up pain.

They made it out of the museum just in time for lunch and were on their way to a restaurant when their van was slammed into. The car was knocked to the left and pushed into oncoming traffic. The family was in panic. Leo was wailing and Hailey screamed while the parents tried to yell out instructions to get down. Then they were hit again. This time, though, the car was lifted off the pavement and it flipped over.

Then it was silent. The van was a crumpled heap of metal on the road and everything was quiet. John lifted his head, regaining consciousness. There was a ringing in his ears that drowned out everything else. Then the world rushed back in and he could hear crying strangers and the ambulance and police that were coming closer. He was disoriented as he was pulled from the wreckage but then everything came back and was rushing back for his family. A fireman held him back from the crash and he yelled at him about his family being trapped.

That’s when he saw the first stretcher. It was Mary. John ran to her and gasped. Her body was bruised and bloody and lifeless. A cloth was placed over the body as it was wheeled away. They pulled Hailey out next. She had, a fireman informed John, clutched Leo to her chest in an attempt to keep him save. It almost did. They were taken to a hospital where the doctors had done everything they could to keep Leo alive.

Leo was the only thing that kept John from being pulled into the dark place that tugged at his heart. Before he went, he had clutched his father’s face in between his little hands and said, quite intelligently for a 5-year-old, “Don’t give up. You have to live.” So that’s what John did, he lived. He resumed his job at the clinic, treating colds and sprained ankles; he went running in the mornings and he didn’t give up. He was called back to the army where he got shot three years later and was honorably discharged. He took up work at the clinic again and he still didn’t give up.

He had recently taken to sitting in the corner booth at a busy little café every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He sat alone with his tea, laptop propped open to an empty blog page where the cursor blinked at him. It had been his therapist’s idea, the blog. She claimed that it would help him move past the trauma of the war and getting shot. It had been unsuccessful thus far. His leg ached, the tremor in his hand made it hard to type, and the nightmares he woke up from sweaty and sobbing made it clear that it would take a lot more than just a blog to get past everything. But nothing really happened to him. Not anymore, at least, and definitely not worth putting in writing. Life had become dreadfully boring for John Watson.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly jumped off the bench when someone spoke to him.

“May I borrow your phone?” It was a woman. She was elegant and slender with pale skin and a mess of sort curls and eyes like the inside of a supernova – blue and green and grey but not any real color at all. Her cheekbones were sharp and dusted with a soft pink from the cold outside. Her lips were red and full and sported an exaggerated cupid’s bow. She stood in front of him in a long coat with a blue scarf tied round her neck. She was altogether striking and John just sat and blinked at her as she waited for his response.

“Sorry, what?” He said, lamely. He was so unused to be disturbed on the mornings that he was unable to remember her question. Although, if John was completely honest with himself, it could have also been how shockingly beautiful the woman was.

“Your mobile, may I borrow it?” Her voice was a low soprano music that fit her elegance. She looked at John with the most reserved expression. John recovered quickly.

“Why? What’s wrong with yours?” He asked, not really wanting to give a complete stranger his mobile and still confused as to why she was there.

“It’s dead.” She looked annoyed and then held out her long-fingered hand, waiting for John to comply. He didn’t know what else to do so he shifted and pulled the object from his pocket and placed it in her open palm. She flipped it open and proceeded to type out a message. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” She asked. Startling John for a second time.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-?” He was cut off by a withering look from the stranger.

“It really wasn’t that difficult. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, the psychosomatic limp in your right leg, it really was quit simple to deduce, Dr.”

“Dr.? That’s not something you could just look at me and know about.” The woman smirked, a slight quirk in the corner of that odd mouth.

“No. I followed you from the clinic.” John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Who the hell does she think she is? “I thought maybe I could get you to help me with something.” She said, flashing a smile at him.

“What? We’ve only just met, we know nothing about each other, and you want my help. Why?” The woman rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated huff.

“I know you’re an army doctor who’s recently been invalided home. You live on your own but you used to have a family and are border-depressed over how you lost them even though it’s been years since. I know that limp you have is psychosomatic just as your therapist thinks. You have a brother but you’re not willing to go to him for help possibly because of his drinking problem maybe because you liked his wife.” She paused and that half smile flickered across her lips again. “I think that’s enough to be going on, don’t you think?” She placed John’s mobile back in front of him and started to turn away but stopped when she remembered something. “Oh, the name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street if you decide to help. Come at 2:00 this afternoon!” And then she left with a flourish of that dark coat, leaving John open mouthed and stunned, his tea growing cold beside him.

John was sitting on his bed staring at the clock. 1:45 pm. He couldn’t decide what to do. He had the choice of going to the address he was given and being confronted with the madwoman from that morning or sitting there in his misery. He’d spent a good couple of hours researching the woman and found that she was quite an intelligent, if not wildly strange, person.

“God, I must be out of my mind.” He said to himself as he rose, grabbed his cane, and left. He decided to walk rather than catch a cab to give him more time to think about the ridiculous decision he’d made.


End file.
